Year of Jubilee (24 page)

I won’t chatter incessantly about the small
affairs, such as the weather and the neighbors’ comings and goings,
or discuss your family, as I’m sure they’re in constant
communication. I will, instead, get right to the point which, I
must add, is quite unlike me.

My marriage to Dale is not at all what I
dreamed it would be. Oh, it’s not that he’s unkind or boorish, but
rather stuffy and a tad dull. I might add he has a bit of
greediness about him, too, which, without a doubt, you are already
familiar with, you both having spent a great deal of time
together.

Things have gotten much more difficult since
we began this building project. Even Father, who has the patience
of Job, has mentioned Dale had fallen short of his
expectations.

Perhaps, you are wondering why I’d alert you
to such goings on. Well, I blush to tell you, as this letter is
already quite scandalous, so I beseech you to keep this an utmost
secret. I noticed you married rather below your station in life.
Oh, please don’t despise me for the words I’ve just written. I beg
of you to instead finish reading what I have to say. Rafe, I made a
huge miscalculation in breaking off our relationship, and I know by
your marriage that you, indeed, seemed to regret the way our lives
have turned.

But perhaps this can all be mended. I urge
you to write to me as soon as you’re able. I need to know, my
treasure, your thoughts on this matter. Please send your response
by means of the name and the box I’ve left you below as you realize
this must only be kept between my heart and yours. The days will
stretch into cold eons until I can turn my eyes upon your letter.
Please don’t delay, my dear.

Always yours,

Rosemary Marie

Jubilee wasn’t sure how long she sat on
Rafe’s bed, thoughts swirling in wicked patterns of anguish and
pain. She only knew that, when she looked up, the window was dark.
Rafe would soon be home from Old Man Franz’s. Like a sleep-walker
she rose, refolded the letter, and walked stiffly from the room,
through the barn, and out into the darkness. For the next
twenty-four hours she barricaded herself inside the cabin.

The first snap of cold weather showed itself
on Sunday morning after a good, hard rain. Jubilee wrapped herself
in her heavy black cape as Rafe guided the horse and wagon amid the
mud to church. The peach dress hung loose, the result of some
weight loss since the discovery of the horrid letter. There was
little conversation between them, which had become the standard for
the last several weeks. Jubilee supposed silence made everything
easier. She could barely speak with the ever-present lump in her
throat, and the rock permanently residing in her stomach.

She was relieved when they arrived at church
and she could converse with Elsa and coo over Britta. Jubilee kept
the child on her lap during the service, her little hands eager for
every new prize Jubilee pulled from her hankie. She brought several
trinkets each week. Holding Britta gave her the chance to separate
herself from the anguish gnawing on her heart. Yet Elsa’s
sympathetic glances were difficult to endure.

It pained her that she and Elsa hadn’t
talked privately since the last confusing conversation at the
Larsson’s home. Jubilee desired to ask her friend to pray for the
awful situation, but they were seldom alone. Even with the
complication of Rosemary’s letter, Jubilee still yearned for a baby
of her own.

Her thoughts turned to Elsa’s promise of
prayer. Was this the answer she needed? A child would be a
blessing, but without Rafe, a child would be an added burden. She’d
never want a child of hers to experience the hunger she’d suffered
last spring. Tears sprang to her eyes as a great sadness washed
over her, even as little Britta beamed at her.
God, I’m so
confused as to how to pray. I don’t know what’s best. I love Rafe,
yet his heart yearns for another. God, tell me what to do.

To hand Britta over to Elsa at the end of
the service seemed pure torture. Britta pitched a fit when her
mother pried her from Jubilee’s arms. Elsa laughed and shushed the
child.

“Jubie, Jubie,” Britta called in a pitiful
voice.

It was all Jubilee could do not to burst
into tears. Instead, she put her head down and marched for the
doors. Her arms seemed weighted and empty as they rolled home in
the wagon. The constant silence between her and Rafe only
accentuated her loneliness.

Rafe withdrew, his eyes heavy with so much
work and not enough sleep. Obviously, he was eaten up with remorse
at having married her now that Rosemary had declared her desire to
take him back. She yearned to reach up and caress his handsome face
and tell him how much she loved him. To bury her hand in his
darkening blond hair, revel in the feel of those locks, and lose
herself in his burning green eyes. She averted her head and
squeezed her hands together to resist the urge as the wagon seat
lurched.

Esther was wrong. She could
never
initiate such a display of her deep love. If Rafe rejected her
feeble offer, she’d be devastated. Besides, men like Rafe wanted
women like Rosemary, not some small, skinny, orphan girl with eyes
too big for her face. Rosemary, despite her arrogance, was gorgeous
and bore the carriage of a true lady who understood how to move in
social circles. But she was a wicked woman, nonetheless.

Once home, Jubilee threaded the needle to
work on the blue baby quilt she’d started. She’d long since
finished Elsa’s yellow creation for their anticipated new arrival.
This one was for the next newborn of the church, whoever that might
be. She caressed its softness and visualized her own child resting
in its folds. Her tears dripped onto the fabric.

Any day now, Rafe would reveal his plans to
go back home to be with Rosemary, the one he loved. Then he’d sell
the farm, send her packing, and be done with her. She groaned and
swept her hand across the intricate pattern of the blanket. She’d
be
divorced
and alone without a child to comfort her. Then
she’d have nothing.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. He was
taking his time, distancing himself. Her stomach clenched. Why? Why
had he married her only to reject her for another?

She threw the quilt on her bed and stood to
pace. There had to be something to do to stop him from pining for
this
woman
. She bit her lip as she stomped back and forth
across the wooden floor. What would detain Rafe from returning to
Rosemary? She froze in the middle of the room. Did she want to keep
him as her husband if he hungered only to be with
her?

She gave a quivering sigh and crossed her
arms. More than anything, she wanted Rafe to love and desire her as
a real wife. She closed her eyes in anguish while fresh, hot tears
spilled down her chapped face. She wandered toward the window and
pressed her forehead on the cold pane. This would never happen. Not
with Rosemary so blatantly offering herself back to him.

So if her marriage—or rather business
association—was over, perhaps the matter of having a child was not
completely out of the question. Even as the thought whipped through
her mind, she flung her hands to her mouth. She couldn’t express
her desire to conceive with him. Suddenly there was a tug-of-war in
her mind. They hadn’t been
unable
to have a child. They’d
never
tried
to have a child.

She spun from the window. No, she could
never actually voice her need for a baby, could she? No. No,
no.
Nothing more than business. Furthermore, would she be
willing to commit
that physical act
to become a mother?

She jumped as a knock sounded. Wiping her
eyes and waving cool air across her hot cheeks, she took a deep
breath. She stepped to the door to whip it open. There stood Rafe
with an empty supper basket.

“I’m caught up with the harvest and we’ve
finished over at Franz’s. You won’t need to leave a meal for me
anymore.” He handed her the basket. “Thought I’d start coming back
here for dinner, if that’s okay?”

She stared at him with her mouth open as
cold air swirled about her skirts. Heat raced up her neck.

“Uh…sure.” She started to close the door,
but he put his hand up. She glanced at his eyes and found them
searching her face. His brows drew together.

“You want to take a break and sit on the
swing?”

That swing
. Tilting her chin up, she
shook her head before shifting her gaze to the crisp leaves
rustling on the pin oak near the driveway. “No.”

He nodded a couple of times before looking
down. “Probably too cold, anyway.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned
and shuffled off the porch. Despite being angry with him earlier,
her heart ached as he walked away. She quickly shut the door,
reminding herself of that awful letter. Her pity evaporated with
the knowledge he’d soon leave her completely alone and
abandoned.

* * *

Rafe bellied up to the woodpile. He was mad
as a hornet at himself and had to work a bit of his frustration
off. He grabbed the axe out of the tree trunk he used to split
timber on and snatched a huge log, placing it on the stump. He’d
worked like anybody’s business to wrap up the harvest, helped at
that ungrateful Old Man Franz’s place, and now it was too late.
He’d done ruined his chance to get close to Jubilee.

The woman seemed to be hiding from him.
Every time he’d have a few minutes to stroll to the cabin, she
worked in the garden or hauled jars to the cooking pot in the yard.
If she wasn’t working, she was barricading herself inside the
house. What was going on in that woman’s head?
Vimen.
Ivan’s
dialect bled into his brain.

He swung the axe, bringing it down with a
satisfying chunk, which split the large log clean in two with one
swipe. His mistake cost him plenty.
Putting my arm around her on
the swing.
Why, he was nothing but a plain dunce. Then she
burnt her fingers and didn’t talk to him for weeks. He wasn’t sure
what that was about.

However, the coldness he’d experienced from
her the last week or two would freeze a lake in a hurry. What in
the world he’d done of late to keep her so isolated had him
befuddled. He thought the letter from Philadelphia would’ve
softened her attitude toward him. And it had, for a few minutes. If
only Ivan hadn’t chosen that moment to pound on the door.

He that is slow to anger is better than
the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a
city.
Proverbs 16:32 had become his mantra since Pastor Barnett
had preached on it a couple weeks back. He mumbled it to himself as
he brought the axe up in a mighty swing.

Church.
The word sent another thought
ricocheting thought his brain. Yesterday Elsa had leaned toward
Jubilee to whisper something about praying for her. Maybe Elsa knew
the root of Jubilee’s stony silence. All he knew was Jubilee’s face
had flamed a charming shade of pink, but she’d clammed up even
tighter.

He whipped the axe over his head and two
pieces jumped away from his blade. And then this mess with
Rosemary. What was the woman thinking? He hadn’t dared to write her
back for fear it’d be misinterpreted. He’d quickly sent off a brief
note to Dale about her letter, which outright stated she wasn’t
happy.

He hoped Dale took his advice kindly. Not
sure why he even bothered. Dale hadn’t afforded him the same
courtesy when he’d stolen Rosemary away. Rafe grunted as the axe
rose again. He ought to thank Dale. His friend had saved him from
certain heartache, which was why he’d been so eager to tip him off.
He paused.
Or, rather, God had saved him.
Rosemary had
certainly proved to be a changeable and difficult woman. He was
glad he didn’t have to deal with her anymore.
Thank you, Lord,
for your perfect plan.

His mind flipped back to Jubilee, with her
haunting brown eyes and thick hair. Sometimes he dreamed of the
night at his parent’s house, with his arms wrapped around her
slight, trembling body and her tresses brushing his skin. His
motions came to a stop, and he propped his hand on the worn wooden
handle. His gaze wandered to the horizon as he continued the dream
sequence.

He always stared into her fathomless dark
eyes, the moonlight filtering through the sheer white curtain, his
hands in her thick curls. And she’d whisper his name. He’d groan
and bend over to touch his lips to hers, feeling her arch against
him, her breath hot on his cheek, and then she’d vanish. He’d wake
up in a sweat of desire.

Blast
. With a growl he grabbed the
axe and arced another swing. He scowled at the stack building on
either side of the stump. What a romantic fool he was turning
into.

Elsa.
He could talk to Elsa and see
what had gotten into Jubilee. He paused a moment in his task and
wiped the perspiration collecting in tiny beads on his forehead.
Yeah. That’s what he’d do. He’d ride over in the early morning
after breakfast and put it on the line with Elsa. Surely she’d know
something.

Rafe stood with his mouth open.
Jubilee
wanted a baby?

Elsa, a bit pink at the subject matter,
shrugged once more, glancing at Ivan next to her in the
doorway.

“That what she say. She ask first if I
happy. If I marry Ivan again. I say yes. But she not happy, but she
say yes when I ask her. Then, I say not happy because no baby. She
say yes.”

Rafe closed his mouth and swallowed. “Did
she say anything else?”

Elsa tilted her head, her lips twisted in a
thoughtful pose. “Yes, she say first husband bad.”

Rafe nodded, his mind occupied by the
previous topic.

She huffed. “Maybe I no say these things.
Maybe Jubilee be angry.”

Rafe rubbed his hand down his bristled
cheeks he’d declined to shave this morning in his haste to visit
the Larssons.